


True Slytherin

by Tammany



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen, Somewhat Kidfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:17:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is one of two WIP series I'm playing with. Neither is currently complete. This is an AU Sherlock & Harry Potter crossover with Mycroft as the central POV character. To some extent it's an attempt to redeem Slytherin House: J. K. Rowling gave good lip service to the idea that all the houses were potentially good, but in the HP series she didn't really carry it out very completely. Since I consider Mycroft a near-perfect Slytherin, it turned into a great and fun chance to play around.</p><p>If I have time, I do know how I want to do this, God willing without having to rewrite all seven of Rowling's books for the AU timeline and outcome.</p><p>There are notes embedded in the chapters, both at the start and the end. As usual, this was originally posted on fanfiction.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. True Slytherin

**True Slytherin**

It was the end of the year at Hogwarts, the spring of 1991. House awards had been given, awards and honors for excellence; the eldest had received their diplomas. Soon those graduates would enter the boats for their final, magical trip across the lake, returning as they had first come, reborn into their adult lives.

Dumbledore had bumbled and buzzed about the old school like his namesake, merry and soothing and sly and vigilant. Now, though, he retreated to his office, as was his habit. Many thought it just the righteous rest due the old man after a long year and a long, long weekend of festivities, visiting parents and families, and demands. The truth was, he had come to expect the final visit—at least one, each year.

Sometimes there were more: the student who needed to say "Thank you," or "You were wrong, and so there," or "I'll show you, I'll show you all," or "I'm not ready." Sometimes you got the one who asked diffidently, "What do I have to do to work here, someday?" But there was always at least one. Dumbledore had overridden the password that allowed visitors entrance, and left the way open in just that expectation. He was not, therefore, surprised to hear the tap at the door.

"Come in, Mr. Holmes."

The door opened and the boy came in. Boy? No, Dumbledore thought with tight-reined appreciation, Mycroft was no-longer a boy, by the traditions of the wizarding world or in actual maturity. Indeed, Dumbledore often suspected Mycroft had arrived at Hogwarts as a little adult—all big eyes and infinite reserve.

He was straight as an arrow, dressed in his best academic robes, with seven years of honors displayed, all picked out in Slytherin green. Prefect, Head Boy: Mycroft had taken all honors except in sports, and even there had put in a good showing...though he was a better duelist than a Quidditch player, and always would be. With his ginger hair—almost as vivid as a Weasley's—and blue eyes, he was a fine young man, with a future ahead of him—a future that, if Dumbledore had any say in it, would include strong ties to the old members of the Order of the Phoenix, and delicate positions in Ministry of Magic. Dumbledore did not believe the wars were over, and he intended to marshal every talent he could access. Mycroft, a Pure Blood of the purest lines, a Slytherin, and—no escaping it—the genius of his generation, was a treasure Dumbledore refused to squander.

He came to stand respectfully before Dumbledore's desk. "Headmaster."

"Mr. Holmes. You had something you wished to discuss with me?" Dumbledore twinkled merrily, not because he expected Mycroft to believe in twinkles and sparkle for one second, but because he did expect Holmes Major to learn from his elders: never let down your guard. Never show them your secrets.

"Something to ask, sir. Perhaps...depending on the answer, perhaps a favour."

Intrigued, Dumbledore sat straighter, and peered over his half-moon glasses. "Ask, Mr. Holmes. I live to teach."

"No, sir. You live to defeat Lord Voldemort, sir."

Dumbledore's shaggy brows leapt. "Most people believe Voldemort defeated, Mr. Holmes. I would be a fool to battle the dead, would I not?"

"You would be a fool to battle public opinion. That is a different matter."

Subtle as a serpent, that one. He and Professor Snape had never quite gotten on—but the older man had nothing but praise for his student's abilities, including those abilities held secret for the coming war. Snape had said, softly, fiercely, "He's true Slytherin. What we can be, when we're allowed."

"So, you want to discuss Lord Voldemort?" Dumbledore said, testing the waters. Perhaps today would be the day to recruit this true Slytherin.

"Only in an oblique sense," Mycroft said, using the vocabulary of a man three times his age or more. "I daresay you'll wish to discuss the coming conflict with me again sometime in the next few years, after I've established myself in government. I thought today, however, I'd ask about a related matter."

Merlin's Beard, the boy was fast! "At this rate, Mr. Holmes, I may not choose to wait a few years."

Mycroft shrugged, delicately. "As you will. However...my question, sir?"

"Mmmm. Yes. Your question. Well?"

"What discretion does the Sorting Hat have when placing students?" Mycroft frowned, slightly, then rephrased. "Does the Sorting Hat put people in the house they'll love—or in the house they need, sir?"

"Excuse me. I'm not sure i understand."

"Sir, I am a Slytherin. I am proud of my house. But I am also aware that many Slytherins find their worst temptations upon entering the house, and soon live down to their lowest inclinations. Likewise Gryffindors: too often too many become bullies, braggarts, and show-offs—not the heroes Godrick Gryffindor would have desired. Ravenclaws can be superb scholars, but also are often heartless, vicious pedants, almost as sly as Slytherins. Hufflepuffs fall into sloth, ask too little of themselves, and forget the strength of friendship and faith and patience they offer the wizarding world. So, I ask again: does the hat sort children into the houses they want, the houses they easily fit, or the houses they truly need?"

"They are sorted where they most  _belong_ , Mr. Holmes. Is the concept too difficult?"

Mycroft was relentless, quivering with a passion Dumbledore found confusing. "Of course it is difficult, sir. What we become here at Hogwarts—it's the future of the wizarding world. It is here we rise, it is here we fall, it is here our habits are formed—our friendships, our skills, our ambitions, our loyalties. What—what if Lord Voldemort, whoever he was, whatever his true identity—what if he was put in the house he belonged, and it made him what he became? What if..." he paused then, running a hand over his young face, clearly straining to his limit to try to convey something he dreaded. "What..." he stopped entirely, then, eyes turned down toward the surface of Dumbledore's desk, but gazing into some dark mystery only he could see.

"Mr. Holmes," Dumbledore said, softly, with a prickle of foresight chilling him, "what are you trying to ask?"

"What if there were someone who should  _not_  be a Slytherin, sir? Never. No matter how he wanted it. No matter who he wanted to imitate. What if someone needed to be somewhere else, in another house? Any other house?"

Dumbledore realized suddenly that the boy was close to breaking with fear of something. "Mr. Holmes?" He took pity, and rose, leading the boy to an armchair by the fireplace, near to Fawkes' stand. "Sit, son. Let me get you a glass of something. I've a some nice bottles of pomegranate juice if you'd like some."

Mycroft looked wanly at his headmaster. "No. Thank you, but no. Sir, how does the Sorting Hat work? Is there a way to influence it? To ask it to...be careful?"

"Who are you worried about, Mr. Holmes?" Dumbledore asked, cutting to the heart of the problem.

Mycroft licked his lips. "It's my brother, sir. He's due to start this coming fall. And...sir, if we'd been born closer together I wouldn't worry so much: he'd have come while I was still here. I could have protected him, even if he was sorted into Slytherin. I could have shown him what is of value—and what is vile. But I can't. I won't be here. Professor Snape can't, either—not if he's to do what you expect of him without being detected. Headmaster, please, believe me, Sherlock's perfect for Slytherin—but Slytherin will destroy him, without someone to provide limits. Sherlock's so very bad at limits."

Head spinning at the realization that Mycroft Holmes had deduced what no one—no one in all the wizarding world suspected, Dumbledore had a hard time giving proper attention and respect to the young man's true concern. The implications of what Mycroft was and could be were too distracting. He chuckled, softly. "Dear, dear, Holmes. I might almost think you were afraid your little brother would be the next Lord Voldemort!"

"That. Or ally with the last one," Mycroft said, eyes haunted.

"I can keep an eye on him, if you wish?"

"No, sir. You're going to be busy enough with young Potter coming in." Mycroft was firm. "Sherlock too? No. He's got to be place somewhere he'll be made to grow well."

"I daresay you even have theories where he should be placed?"

"Gryffindor would be best. Brains, but with that bloody passion for justice: it would counter many of Sherlock's worst tendencies. Ravenclaw would challenge him, but might be almost as bad as Slytherin when it comes to indulging his vices. He'd be furious to end up in Hufflepuff, but it would be good for him, and Hecate knows, he'd make true friends."

"You're quite serious about this," Dumbledore said, beginning to realize just how intent on this his former Head Boy was. He tried to recall the second Holmes boy. A gawky thing, he seemed to remember, with huge blue eyes, more vivid than his brother's, a shock of black curls, and a wild gypsy look to him. "He's an eleven-year-old boy, Mr. Holmes. You don't think giving me this warning is sufficient?"

"He's  _my_ brother," Mycroft said, and the answer compounded a world of things in one phrase. Pride of possession, responsibility, and—yes, Dumbledore thought, kinship. Deep, profound kinship.

"He's like you." It was instant certainty, not a question—a certainty that included the stunning revelations about Mycroft Holmes' true capacities revealed only today.

"We're much of a muchness, sir. But—he's not like me, too. We have very much the same intellect. In personality, we are different. Quite different."

"Differences are not a disadvantage, Mr. Holmes. He may well have his own path to follow, but that doesn't mean it's worse than yours."

Mycroft glared at his elder with a scorn that Dumbledore would have found deeply unlikely only a few hours before. "Of course it's not worse. He's a bloody marvel, my brother, and if we're lucky he'll grow to be a great, good man. He's just not right to be a Slytherin, sir. It will be the ruin of him if he is."

Dumbledore sighed, balancing his own experience against this stunning young genius' own knowledge of both his brother and of Hogwarts. "I am willing to consider your concerns, Mycroft. I am not, however, aware of any way to tamper with the Sorting Hat's selection—except to the degree that every student influences the hat. It doesn't choose at random, and what a student wants can overrule all other things. We've got Gryffindors who should have been Ravenclaws, Slytherins, or Hufflepuffs going by natural talent and inclination—but their hearts were committed to the Lion. The same for all the other houses. The hat listens to the child, in the end. I don't know what one could do about that."

"Sherlock will want Slytherin, sir. Because he's my brother. Because he's got not patience with what most people think 'good.' Because he's more interested in games than scholarship, in cleverness, not wisdom."

"And you're so sure it will be his destruction?"

"And perhaps ours. There's a war, coming, sir. You know it. You're preparing for it. Don't—don't give the enemy Sherlock, sir. You almost lost Professor Snape, sir. Losing Sherlock would be worse even than that. Much, much worse."

"How do you know all this?" Dumbledore growled, beginning to fear what Holmes could do.

"I  _observe_ , sir," Holmes snapped back. "I watch. I listen. I think. I test. I learn. I am not some stupid child thrashing his way through seven years bickering over Quidditch scores and who's snogging whom. I know when Professor Snape was born, and what his family was, and..."

"Enough. You've been spying." Dumbledore hovered between furious horror and fascinated intrigue. What a find this young man might be.

"No, sir." Mycroft said, coldly. "Though I'm quite capable of it. But there's a vast difference between paying attention and outright spying. I decided my first year I'd save spying for after graduation, when it might be more necessary."

The seconds seemed to slow as Dumbledore evaluated the situation, Mycroft, and Mycroft's fears. After a moment he sighed. "We're definitely going to be talking about your future plans a good deal sooner than a few years from now, Mr. Holmes. But in the meantime—to address your primary concern, I can think of no way to alter the judgment of the Sorting Hat. I can, however, offer you an opportunity to do something that has seldom been done before. I will let you put the hat on a second time. Over the centuries the magic of the hat has evolved to a degree that it is now, in my opinion, not an artefact so much as a magical being in its own right. If it can be influenced by argument and logic, you are welcome to try."

Mycroft sighed in relief. "Now, sir? Can we do it now? Sherlock's in Hogsmeade with Mummy, and I'd like to try before they come back."

Dumbledore nodded, and fetched the Hat down from its shelf. He handed it to the younger man.

Mycroft hesitated, holding it gingerly, turning it around and around by the brim.

"What are you waiting for?" Dumbledore said, teasing softly. "Better done than dithered over, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft nodded, soberly, and gently placed the Sorting Hat on his neatly combed red hair.

The next few minutes were silent tempest—a war of wills and magic Dumbledore could only intuit, but could not witness himself.

" _Not Slytherin," Mycroft snarled, as he chased the peculiar person-hood that was the hat through the intricacies of its own spelled making. "Not Slytherin. Anything but Slytherin. I don't care where you put him—well, I do. Put him with people who are strong, and bright, and loving. Find him friends. Give him challenges. But not Slytherin." He pressed everything he knew of his brother into the "mind' of the hat: look-sound-scent. Heart-body-soul-spirit. Sherlock's crackling laughter, so often misplaced and mistimed. The hunger of Sherlock's need to solve things, the leap and lunge of his half-disciplined mind. Sherlock's loneliness. Sherlock's vanity. Sherlock's insecurity._

_Every single thing eighteen years had taught the exceedingly observant Mycroft Holmes about his baby brother Sherlock, he etched into the Hat: into spell and charm, into felt and weave._

" _Sort him. Sort him well. Sort him with love. But not into Slytherin. Not ever into Slytherin. Anything but Slytherin," he said. "Put him in Slytherin and you'll learn all the terrible, dangerous things I ever chose not to be. I vow it—as a Slytherin, I swear. I'll undo every single good decision I ever made, if that's what it takes to punish you. Do you understand?"_

_It understood._

" _Will you remember?"_

_It would remember._

" _Very good," Mycroft said, and dusted off his immaculate internal self, settling his non-corporeal wizarding robes just so and slipping the aura-shadow of his first wand into his breast pocket. He stepped back into the world outside the hat..._

...and removed it from his head, holding it out to Dumbledore.

"You think that's done it?" Dumbledore asked, in wry amusement. The surge of will and magic had abated, but would not be soon forgotten by the Headmaster.

Mycroft gave a tiny, prim shrug. "Time will tell, sir. But—if it didn't do it, there will be repercussions."

No doubt, Dumbledore thought, there would be. This young man was a force to be reckoned with. With a little internal sigh, he watched his former Head Boy prepare to leave.

"And where are you going, next?" Dumbledore asked.

"Hogsmeade to rendezvous with Mummy and Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Then, I think, I'll see about going to Olivander's before going home. I've quite outgrown the limits of my first wand, and had some ideas about a new one. I'm thinking of a bespoke commission." He met his former Headmaster's eye, and added. "Dear Hagrid has quite given me an idea for a suitable form. Not, however, pink, I think. Definitely not pink."

"No," Dumbledore agreed, his face straight but his eyes dancing. "It would hardly suit a serious man like yourself."

By Merlin's Beard, he thought. The boy just—just— _sparkled_  at me! Ah, if he'd been born a few generations sooner, or I a few generations later, this one would have given Gellert real competition for my heart. I wonder if it's luck or doom that ensured it didn't happen that way?

He saw his former student out, and proceeded to contact Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Kingsley—we need to talk. Should we ever need to do what we've discussed, I've got a potential recruit you simply must meet. Yes. Yes, Diagon Alley, next week is good. I'll see you then."

And in Hogwarts, in the fall of 1991, two boys crossed over the dark lake in boats, and came to sit upon the Sorting Stool, beneath the Sorting Hat. Both were black haired, both passionate, both exceptional, both with a mark of lightning at the crown—one mark worn outside for all to see, and the other worn inside where it was easily missed and misunderstood. Both could have gone either way: Slytherin or Gryffindor. In both cases, the Hat heard a mental voice shouting, "Not Slytherin, anything but Slytherin."

Of course, in only one case was that voice the voice of the boy being sorted.

Only one of the boys got his own wish. While many things happened as a result of that injustice, it worked out in the end. And, as the Hat thought to itself, it wasn't like young Holmes Minor would make a bad Gryffindor at all.

And it did not want, ever, ever, ever to know what Holmes Major had chosen  _not_ to become. That one, you see, had been true Slytherin to the core, with never a moment's doubt—and while Slytherins can be every bit as good as they can be bad, there's simply no doubt that the greatest Slytherins of all are deadly beyond reckoning—and there was no question that Holmes Major was one of the great, great Slytherins, even if only a few would ever know.

That, you see, is the way of the True Slytherin—to wait unseen, to strike without warning, and to fall back in silence.


	2. A Visit to Olivander's

  
**A Visit to Olivander's**.

"It is a section of the shed skin of Jörmungandr," Mr. Olivander said. "The Midgard Serpent himself." He held up the long, shimmering loop of snakeskin, allowing it to twist in the dim sunlight slinking in warily through the murky window. "Infinitely long, infinitely strong. It took me eighteen years to track down a skin, and few people wish to use it...but I think, just possibly, it might be appropriate to your commission. Please, tell me what you think, Mr. Holmes. No, no, you need not be concerned about damaging it—it's virtually indestructible. Pull, twist—even cutting it is difficult. I had to go to the Islands of the Blessed and ask for the use of Caladbolg to cut the core-lengths...and each was a day in the cutting. I've three, and won't be able to ask for a chance at Caladbolg for another seven years."

Mycroft slipped a finger into the loop of serpent skin. He held it high. Against all reason, it twisted into a Moebius strip—a natural lemniscate. From a distance it appeared silver-green, like the sheen of light on dark northern waters. Looked at more closely it showed a shimmering blend of hues, ever-changing, yet peaceful. His sense of touch insisted that a cool, wet serpent flowed endlessly over his finger. Holding it, he could hear the sound of waves rushing over sand—a wet hissing.

"Makes you wonder what it's saying, almost," Olivander said, slyly.

"Mainly it sings of centuries passing," Mycroft said, absently. "Of silver moonlight on the water, and of currents in the deep. Nothing all that useful." Not useful, but beautiful...

"You are a Parselmouth?"

"Not to any great degree—and the skin speaks much less Parsel than Draconii, with a very thick Nordic accent, I might add."

"I didn't realize the Holmes family was descended from Salazar Slytherin."

"Oh, we're not! One of Paracelcus' bastards married into the family in the 1500s, and it's theorized that those of us with a talent for the tongue had it by that route. Believe me, if we could claim Slytherin in the family tree, I've got relatives who'd be all over it like garden gnomes on a potato patch. Most of the Holmeses make even the Blacks look indifferent to their 'heritage.'"

"Still," Olivander said, speculatively, "a parselmouth. So unusual..."

"It's not all that useful, I'm afraid," Mycroft said, apologetically. "The only use I think I've ever had for it was to make sure there were no adders in the garden when Sherlock was little. It was easier to warn them away from Sherlock than to try to warn Sherlock to stay away from them."

"That's because I wanted to experiment on them, Mycroft," his brother said, grumpily. The eleven-year-old was examining a long line of wands Olivander had set out for his inspection. "It's hard to experiment on an adder without first capturing it. What about this one?" he asked, holding up a jet-black wand that started in a knotted knob of gnarled roots and ended with a crooked kink.

"Blackthorn with a three-strand braid of unicorn, centaur, and Pegasus mane at the core," Olivander said, happy to fill in the details on his work. "Unusual, to say the least. A commission, but it failed to live up to its buyer's expectations—in my opinion a poor match, rather than a poor design, however. Give it a try, young Holmes. See what—"

ZZZZZZZZZZZZOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRCCCCCCCCCCC CCCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

"Perhaps something a bit less powerful," Mycroft said, warily, as he and the wand-smith crept back up from behind the counter. "I'll have a workman over to repair your door immediately, Mr. Olivander."

"I don't want something less powerful," Sherlock said, gleefully. "No one in Slytherin will have anything to match! It's absolutely brill!" He raised his arm again.

Mycroft, too used to his brother's enthusiasm, darted forward, twitching the wand out of his fingers before he could blast holes through anything else in the shop. "You may not end up in Slytherin. And you're not going with  _this_. I'll buy it for you, but I'm going to have Mr. Olivander store it until you've proven capable with a less...excitable wand. Maybe next fall."

"Halloween."

"Next fall...maybe. It's not a promise."

"Christmas?"

"Next fall. I can do this all day, Sherlock."

His brother sulked—an activity for which he showed considerable genius. "Spring Break?"

"Next fall, and then only if your instructors feel you're showing sufficient discipline to be entrusted with that overpowered Jove's Bolt of a wand."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're not my father."

"No. Father's dead, and I'm your guardian, along with Mummy," Mycroft said, dryly. "And on occasion I consider the substantial advantages of exchanging positions with him. A grave's a fine and private place...it all sounds quite lovely, if you must know. Now, I said no sooner than next fall, I meant no sooner than next fall, and so you might as well look at the other wands Mr. Olivander has out for you to consider, because the blackthorn's going in his safe until you're cleared for its use. Unless you want to go to Hogwarts without, and be offered whatever has been left behind by last year's graduating class. There are always a few on hand left by students who've been given new wands as graduation presents."

Sherlock scowled, and drew in a deep breath—no doubt preparatory to having a tantrum. Mycroft sighed, drew his old wand, and said, "Silencio," with an almost lazy gesture.

Sherlock scowled even more darkly. He tucked his chin, set his jaw, and looked ready to start kicking.

Mycroft glanced pleadingly at Olivander. "Something safe enough he can at least be trusted to learn on it, Mr. Olivander? Please?"

Olivander nodded, amused, and drew out a satiny gray wand of extreme simplicity, marked only by a meandering tracery of black netting in the wood. "Try this, young Mr. Holmes. Spalted poplar heartwood and a core of unicorn hair. Give it a shake and see what you think."

Sherlock scowled, then gave a mighty—if silent—sigh, and grudgingly took the wand. He gave a flick—and broke out smiling as an icy wind swirled through the shop.

"It may not be as powerful as the blackthorn, young master, but you've substantially more control over it," Olivander pointed out. "Altogether a better match for you, sir, at least at this stage of your studies. Always time to expand your horizons, after all. A man who's only had one wand in all his life is a man who's not grown, if you ask me."

"Certainly a man who's not doing his bit to keep Olivander's in business," Mycroft murmured, quietly, but not too tartly. "Speaking of which—Sherlock, I'll be purchasing that one for you. Why don't you give it to Mr. Olivander for wrapping, then go on ahead to Obscurus Books and start putting together your book list for first year. "

Sherlock pointed at his mouth, with great annoyance.

"Oh, yes. Right. Sorry...though I swear, it's tempting to leave it on, so you can't cause trouble before I'm done here. Still..." He removed the Silencio spell, gave his brother a few tart suggestions regarding his behaviour in the bookstore, then, as Sherlock left, returned to his conversation with the wandsmith. " , may I see that Jörmungandr skin core again?"

Olivander searched the area behind the counter, and located the lemniscate on the floor, where it has fallen during his and Mycroft's brief duck for cover. "Here, sir. You're interested, then?"

"You think it will be compatible with the metals and silk needed?"

"Worked a treat so far as I've experimented, sir. And I've been talking to Wayland Smith and Sons about doing the steel and brass. Madame Venery, over on Skittlefall Street is a good pick for the silk work. She's pure magic with a needle, that woman—pure magic."

Mycroft ran the silky, supple loop around and around in his hand, feeling something grow calm in his heart—a stillness deeper even than that he'd learned to achieve on his own. The power of the skin went down and down, feeling nearly limitless. "I'll take it. You're ready to proceed?"

"Oh, more than ready," Olivander said, rubbing his hands gleefully. "A pretty puzzle of a commission, if you must know, and as nice a solution as I've come up with in all my years. This will be a pleasure to work on, and the end result will be heirloom quality work."

"I should hope so, given what you're charging," Mycroft said. "Very well. Proceed. Let me know when you've got a prototype. I'll come over for a testing session as soon as you're ready."

"Of course." Olivander scuttled around behind the counter, storing the Jörmungandr skin in a box marked with Mycroft's name. "I'll store the blackthorn wand, too, yes?"

"Yes—if you think it's a good match for my brother, not just a fluke energy flux."

"No, no. Superb match—but, as you suggest, far too powerful for a beginner. The spalted poplar will do better for him, possibly for some years to come. No doubt Professor Snape will keep you informed of his progress, though. Plenty of time to let him move up to the blackthorn."

"Whoever he gets for a Housemaster should make that judgment, yes."

Olivander looked at him curiously. "One assumed a family of the age and purity of the Holmeses would be aiming for Slytherin. You yourself were..."

"Slytherin, yes. And with no complaints: I've only the best memories of my house at Hogwarts. But I've a...strong intuition the boy may be sorted elsewhere."

"Ravenclaw, then?" Olivander said, dubiously. "Perhaaaaaps..."

"Time and the Sorting Hat will tell," Mycroft said, then changed the subject. "While I'm waiting for the commission, I could use an upgrade of my own. I've recently been accepted as an Auror in Training, under the mentorship of Kingsley Shacklebolt, and I'm quite sure my old wand isn't up to the kind of demands I'm likely to place on it. Have you any suggestsions?"

"An Auror!" Olivander was surprised. "I hadn't heard that—and I hear all the gossip."

"It's not exactly news for the Tattler," Mycroft said, arching his brows. "An apprenticeship, no more."

"It's been, what? Ten years since I last heard of a Slytherin being accepted into the Aurors. After You-Know-Who was defeated and the trials were held, they were rather down on candidates from that House."

"Lord Voldemort," Mycroft said, sourly. "I wonder if my poor house shall ever live him down."

"He accomplished great things," Olivander pointed out, as he rummaged through various boxes and trays. "Great things."

"For a value of greatness that rather leaves out all moral standards."

"Well, he  _was_  Slytherin, after all," Olivander replied, as though that explained everything.

"Not you, too," Mycroft said, suddenly angry. "Does no one understand my house anymore? Not even the great Olivander? We are water and wisdom—hidden truth and ambiguity. We are shadow and starlight and dream. We are the moon to Gryffindor's sun. We're the house of subtle distinctions, patient assessments, and desperate measures. We are the Secret Keepers of all the Wizarding World. We're the house of those who ache for excellence, and who are willing to take risks to extend knowledge. We walk where angels may not, and fight wars in which the seraphim may not engage. We are the wise who are called into battle when innocence and ignorance will not serve. We are loyalty beyond mere justice, and fidelity beyond death." He snorted. "If it had not been for 'Lord Voldemort' and his vile ambitions, the Aurors would have three of my house for every Gryffindor they ever recruited. As it is, it will be generations before the stink of his passage will be lifted from the Serpents—and the Wizarding World will be the poorer for it."

Olivander's head lifted, his hands grown still in mid-gesture as he opened a wand-case. "Ah. I see. You're one of those. True Slytherin—the old covenant, not the new."

"There is no 'new covenant.' Only greedy, vainglorious fools led astray by a brilliant, lunatic popinjay—willing to mistake the Pure Blood for the Wizarding World itself. They forget—the Pure Blood is only precious when it serves, not when it is served, and is only honoured by the Wizarding World when in it first honours all those who make up that world." He sniffed. "Mud Blood! Half-blood! Squib! Muggles! Any of the old families and the old bloodlines should be ashamed to use the words, to offer those insults. We are all grown from the soil of the Muggle world, and only an idiot forgets it."

Olivander cackled. "Tsk-tsk. You'll make no friends on any side with notions like that, Mr. Holmes. The old families will shun you: you want too much effort from them for too little reward. And the rest of the Wizarding World will think you arrogant beyond all endurance." He laid two wand cases on the counter. "I've two very different wands for you to look at. I'll be curious what you determine about them." He pushed the first forward. "See what you can see, sir."

Mycroft considered the box before him, details streaming in, cascading through his mind.

Old case—very old, and of the finest craftsmanship: a case intended as more than just a convenient place to keep a wand, then. The case was silver repoussé: a coiled serpent on a bed of beautifully detailed moonflowers, their gleaming trumpets open wide. "Hephaestus Fabricant's work," Mycroft murmured. "1600s, France. Le Studio Perdu..." He held his hand over the case. "At least seven interlocking enchantments on the case alone, including a shielding spell...and...yes. It's spell-locked. Do you have the passkey?"

"Yes...but can you deduce it?" Olivander asked. "You might enjoy the challenge."

"Hmmm." Mycroft hummed, softly. He let the intricate loops of enchantment into his mind, feeling them coil and uncoil. "Not intended for a Slytherin precisely: it's true French work, and quite indifferent to Hogwarts traditions, I daresay. But—of the same tradition—the search for the Sangreal, and the true, pure knight."

He considered, blending knowledge and imagination, observation and intuition. Placing his hand on the case, he said, softly, "Mon'salvat." He could feel the enchantments open like the uncoiling trumpet of a moonflower, prepared to let him in.

"What do you expect to find?" Olivander asked, watching him.

"The Wand of Perlesvaus," Mycroft breathed, and lifted the lid.

The wand lying within was one of the simplest Mycroft had ever seen: little more than a slim spine of wood, long and sleek and clean as a miniature lance.

"Willow—a willow wand. Naturally formed. It's been threaded through with a tail-hair from Chiron—the original Chiron himself. Purity of purpose, resilience, wisdom." Olivander reeled off the particulars of the wand with something that neared affection. "A lovely thing, isn't it?"

"Amazing. May I..." Mycroft gestured, unwilling to pick it up without Olivander's permission.

"By all means."

It came to his hand like a lover to its beloved. He could feel it, responsive, supple, secretive, seductive...and clean. Clean as fresh water running fast past an ancient willow. Reluctantly he put the wand back in its case, pushed the case toward Olivander. "Here. Take it back, before I beg for it."

Olivander pushed it back. "No. I hold such things in trust, and return them to use when the right wizard arrives for them. It's yours, Slytherin. As an Auror I'm sure you'll have use for a true knight's wand. Now, here—look at the other."

The second case was Asian work—a lacquered box decorated with a painting of a beautiful woman in Chinese clothing of the Song Dynasty, holding a tall, thin vase and a green, drooping branch. On her shoulder sat a parrot.

"Guanyin," Mycroft said, without hesitation. He put his hand over the case. "Unwarded, unguarded."

"No less precious for all that," Olivander replied. "It was given to me some years back, during the worst of the Wizarding War. I've used it when I could, and as I could."

Mycroft lifted the lid of the box."Willow, again!"

"Yes—and as alive and green today as it was the day it was picked. You can tear off a leaf, and there are no fewer remaining. Dip it in water, and the water's pure. It heals. It lightens hearts. It soothes the spirit. It grants courage...and allows the dying to pass in peace."

Mycroft traced the wand with one long finger. It was indeed a single, living, tender, green switch of willow, droopy and graceful, tufted with long-bladed willow leaves. The base of the wand was seated in an intricate handle of pierced, carved jade—the shaft of the handle pale, soft green, with a carved end-piece made of jade so dark a green it was like a dream of fir trees at midnight.

"Hold it," Olivander said.

Mycroft picked it up—and sighed.

"Oh. It's..."

"Compassion. The wand of the Lady of Compassion."

Mycroft nodded. He put it down with great reluctance. "It's not mine. I'm not going to be the right person to keep it, Mr. Olivander."

"No. But you know where it is. Someday, when you need it—come to me."

He nodded, then cleared his throat. "Well. My goodness. Not at all what I expected to be doing this afternoon—but I can hardly complain. Still, I'd best get to Obscurus Books before Sherlock discovers the extent of the Alchemical section. He's going to give Professor Snape a rough ride regardless of which house the Sorting Hat selects for him."

"A handful, that one."

"It takes a village to raise a child. It takes an entire metropolis to raise Sherlock—ideally a major metropolis with a strong Wizarding community and a vigilant local branch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

"Looking forward to handing him over to Dumbledore, are you?"

"Good God, yes. I assure you, no eighteen-year-old deserves to have to play father to an eleven-year-old. Especially when that eleven-year-old is my brother Sherlock. As far as I'm concerned, the Hogwarts Express can't arrive a minute to soon—or depart too soon either, bearing my brother away to more competent hands than mine. Now, you'll let me know how things progress with our little project?"

"Of course, Mr. Holmes."

"Very good. And—I'm honoured by your generosity, Wand Master Olivander."

"The honour was mine—Slytherin." Olivander's eyes crinkled. "Keep your silence...and remember your allies."

"I will," Mycroft ensured him. "I assure you—I will."

And he would, he thought, as he ambled toward Obscurus Books. He'd been working with Kingsley Shacklebolt for a mere month, now, and already he'd determined that, no matter what Dumbledore and his own network had in mind, they'd been planning like Gryffindors, not Slytherins...

And in the war Mycroft feared lay ahead, it was high time  _someone_  started thinking like a moderately capable Slytherin! Hecate's Hexes, whatever were they thinking!

And so he'd begun to make his lists, and reach out—for though not all Slytherins are evil, they are all given to cunning, and to powerful alliances not readily seen. This time, when the Wizarding World fell into conflict, Lord Voldemort and his ilk would not be the only Slytherins making plans—and for once the plans would be in service of the greater cause.

Someone, after all, had to make the ideals of Slytherin House real. Someone had to be True Slytherin.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always felt that J.K. Rowling gave better lip-service to the idea of the necessity and value of Slytherins than she actually gave evidence—though one can determine much of what Slytherins can be at their best by considering what their vices would be if they were set straight, by "reading" the occult/religious/archetypal symbolism she gave the house, and by understanding the virtues of characters like Snape, who may be flawed, but who remains a powerful, indeed a magnetic hero.
> 
> I find it easy enough to retcon why "modern" Slytherins have fallen from greatness; they're still recovering from the morass of vanity and viciousness Voldemort seduced them into, and are bound by their own inclination to passionate loyalty, making them slow to recover and disavow their own mistakes. If one assumes that Voldemort played to their greatest weaknesses, one can then try to determine what might be their greatest strengths, too.
> 
> Mycroft, from Sherlock, to my mind represents much of what is both great and less-great about Slytherins, and when I started playing with the idea of him in a cross-over, it quickly seemed like a wonderful way to also explore Slytherins as a group.
> 
> I have no idea if I will take this much further: I have to finish up my Sherlolly piece, The Lion and the Mouse: Texting Subtext. But... I like this little crossover, and I like this eighteen-year-old Mycroft, just entering his adult life at the same time Harry and the crew (including Sherlock) are entering their Hogwarts years.
> 
> If I do decide to pursue this, I have to say one thing: In my opinion, if Dumbledore had been given Mycroft Holmes and Sherlock as allies in the Second Wizarding War—it would have been a very different, and quite possibly less costly conflict. Having Mycroft and Sherlock on your side is like being given two extra queens on your side of the chessboard from the very start.


	3. Adjustments and Apprenticeships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft starts his apprenticeship as an auror, and Sherlock starts his life as a student at Hogwarts.

Adjustments and Apprenticeships

The letter was delivered by a Hogwarts owl. It was addressed in a boyish hand, and there were smudges on both the envelope and the letter, suggesting a baptism with schoolboy tears. Mycroft's mouth tightened and his eyes were sad as he read the letter. He could only sympathize with his brother's anger and grief, even as he also noted his hyperbolic reactions, unappealing social assumptions, and his dubious spelling skills.

.

Mycroft-

I didn't make it. The stupid, stupid Sorting Hat put me in the wrong house. Dumbledoor won't do anything about it...that I'm stuck in Griffindoor.

I'm sorry. I tried. Stupid hat. I hate hats.

Please, get me out of here. Can you and Mummy put me in Bow Batons or Drumstrong? I don't want to be in Hogwarts if I can't be a Slytherin.

Sherlock.

Oh—the other kids are stupid. Except for one know it all, but she's only a girl, and she's a Mud Blood. And I was making friends with a boy named Draco on the train. But he got into Slytherin—won't be talking to me, now. And Harry Potter got sorted into Griffindoor, too. He's a bit of a dweeb.

I would really like Drumstrong, I think. But Bow Batons is OK, even if its headmaster is a girl and a filthy giantess.

SH

.

Mycroft sighed and ran his hands over his face. It was hard knowing what to do about Sherlock. Mycroft was only eighteen, after all, and even he thought it was a bit unfair of life to ask him to figure out how to be a father all of a sudden, much less a father to someone as challenging as Sherlock. Still, at least he had help. He trusted the teachers of Hogwarts, and admired them for the work they did educating and socializing some of the most dangerous little hellions on the planet.

The least he could do was not let them down. He picked up a pen...

.

Dear Sherlock,

Look, you silly prat, getting sorted into Gryffindor is hardly a shame—and do please note the spelling of your new house? It's y before i and only one o. Gryffindor. An honourable name and an honourable house. No doubt you will thrive there, if you let yourself.

I don't know where you picked up the vulgar insults. I thought Mummy was avoiding all the old Death Eater circle. I strongly suggest you remove terms like "Mud Blood" and "filthy giantess" from your vocabulary immediately. It is beneath you as a Holmes, as a Gryffndor, and as the beloved brother of a Slytherin. And, for whatever particular things our lineage is worth, it is beneath you as a Pure Blood. With great power and prestige comes great obligation, Sherlock, and the understanding that power is not the same thing as worth. Even the untalented—those who live in the human world, those who live powerless in the wizarding word—are of value. Only the ill-bred and poorly raised think otherwise.

Yes, I am aware that quite a number of people, including Pure Bloods and Slytherins, are ill-bred and poorly raised. Do not be among them. I'm in no way ashamed to be brother to a Gryffindor. I'm quite appalled to be related to anyone who uses the sorts of insults you used in your last letter.

Look, short-stuff, it's not going to kill you to be in Gryffindor. They're a good enough lot, on the whole, and there's no reason not to pursue your ties with Slytherins, too. Indeed, I suspect your House Heads and Dumbledore (please note, only one o and an e at the end) would cheer and dance and sing happy little songs if you could do anything to improve ties between houses—particularly between Gryffindor and Slytherin. So by all means, see if you can continue your friendship with this Draco.

Is that young Malfoy? If so—they're a good family, and idiotically loyal. The good side is that if you can make friends with him, you'll have a friend for life. The bad side is that they're still all wrapped up in that ugly Death Eater stuff, and are likely to remain so. Faithful to the bitter end, even when their loyalty is given to the undeserving. If you can, try to make it easy for Draco to step out of that. It will only make his time in Hogwarts more difficult and painful, and isolate him. You certainly know what that's like.

Yes. I can hear you now, screaming that I'm asking you for too much, and you don't understand a word of it, and you don't do people-stuff. I don't believe it for an instant, brat. Count ten, review the basic elements of a potion, and get a grip. You can do it if you'd just exert yourself.

Further suggestions: Do not insult girls, even if they are girls—especially if they are smart girls. Smart is good, regardless of the package it comes in. If you must be a bigot, be bigoted against morons. As prejudices go, that one at least offers some value.

Do not be ashamed of your Slytherin connections—not privately, among your house mates, and not publically, where members of the other houses can see you. There are many in each house with mixed loyalties, either by personal inclination or by kinship or friendship. Those mixed loyalties are useful. Encourage them. Take pride in them. Do not fail me in this.

Learn to recognize the strengths and weaknesses of your own house. Gryffindors tend to be bold, daring, courageous, loyal, and high spirited. They are also far too often right stupid blockheads. Do try to choose your mates from the least blockish? Loud, bullying, bragging types are worth avoiding. Look for the Gryffindors who are hidden treasure.

As for sending you to Beaux Batons (It's French, Sherlock. It means "beautiful wands." And do memorize the spelling...the eaux will trick you every time if you don't...) or Durmstrang (German, means nothing but sounds like 'sturm und drang' which means storm and stress...)? No. Don't waste my time asking. Mummy and I will not place you in either school. Our family has attended Hogwarts since its founding, and we're not going to change loyalties just because my runty little brother got sorted into Gryffindor. It may be the second-best house in the school, but even I must admit it's a very close second... and you'll enjoy one thing about it: it's full of show-offs. You'll feel right at home.

I'll write Mummy and ask her to check the family records. As I recall we've had outstanding ancestors in every house. She can probably have the archivist send you a list of our more memorable Gryffindors.

Brother? Truly, do not despair. This is not a mistake, nor need you give up your pride and interest in the House of the Serpent. It is on such shared loyalties that the future of the wizarding world depends. Be a good little Gryffindor, brat. Wear the red and gold well...and know that your serpentine brother loves you, and knows your soul wears silver and green as well.

Now, I must be off. I'm to start training today at the basic level of apprenticeship. I and another beginner are going to be working under a promising member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A basic patrol cop, but quite capable, I am told, and great things are expected of him in future. Mr. Shacklebolt assures me all Aurors start at the beginning, on ordinary details under a seasoned officer. Nymphadora Tonks and I are going to be working under Officer Lestrade together. (That's Lestrade, not Lestrange. No relation to the Azkaban lot...) I'd say "wish me luck," but I think I've already been lucky: Tonks was always a right sort in Hogwarts, and I'm happy to be assigned with her in Auror training. She's under Alastor Moody the same way I'm under Shacklebolt, but we're doubled up for our practical assignments. It could be so much worse!

Again, my best wishes.

Love,

Mycroft.

PS, if they serve those big, thick brownies with peanut butter icing at lunch sometime, grab two for me and send them by owl? I haven't found any bake shop here in London that sells them, and I'm half dead thinking of them.

Thanks,

MH

.

Mycroft had just sent the owl on its way back to Hogwarts with a few knuts in its purse and the return letter in its claws when Tonks came ambling into the drab day room assigned the Auror trainees. Her hair was peacock-green, and she'd put together an ensemble combining human punk fashion and what was commonly known as Wizarding Wild by the magical fashionistas.

"Oi, Mickey! Howsa?" she said, grinning, as she rushed in. "The DMLE guy here yet?"

"Officer Lestrade's not yet arrived," Mycroft said, "and if you continue to call me 'Mickey' I will tell him you prefer being called 'Nymphy' when he does get here."

She shuddered and held up her hands in mock defense. "Aieeee! Come on, Holmes, you can't be that mean."

"Not mean—sneaky," he replied, with an amused grin. "Slytherin, you know?"

She laughed, but said, "You can't want to be called 'Mycroft,' though."

"It's better than most of the other options," he pointed out. "And it is my name. It doesn't even really stand out, here in the wizarding world. If you didn't have strong ties to the human world, I doubt you'd even notice."

She looked at him, curiously. "Y'mean I'm Muggle-blood, yeah?"

Mycroft allowed himself a little moue of distate. "I said human. I mean human."

She frowned. "Look, mate, even I say Muggle. You don't have to watch your language to humor me."

"I'm not. I simply prefer to extend basic politeness to all parties."

She gave him a look, taking in his neat clothes—the stuffiest of wizard business attire, combining an elegant black frock coat and trousers, a deep grey weskit, and a high-collared shirt with silvery-grey cravat peppered with bright green snakes. "Whoa. You sound like someone's grandfather...and... Look. I get it. You're new in town, trying to make a good impression. But I can take you around to some of the shops, you know. It's not all Diagon Alley business district. You're allowed to look your age."

He flicked a brow, and smirked...a friendly smirk, but still a smirk. "As opposed to looking under my age?" He studied her leather skirt, multi-zippered boots, and modified "Sedorceress" styled top. "You look like a Hogwarts girl on summer break trying to shock her parents."

She flipped him a two-fingered salute, along with a cheerful grin. "That's because up until five minutes ago, when I reported for duty, that's all I was."

"The time for reviewing your respective attire can come later." Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice and imposing presence should have filled the room, and probably would have had he not been accompanied by Mad Eye Moody, who had his own dramatic aura.

Together they should have overwhelmed anyone else in their company. They did overwhelm Mycroft and Tonks.

They did not, however, overwhelm their companion. Or they didn't in Mycroft's eyes.

Oh, dear, he thought—at least as far as he could think anything. Mostly his mind was making little agonized hissing noises and dropping words and ideas and images all over the floor. He grabbed for a word, and managed something that seemed to say, prettyprettyprettypretty. Another said simply Him. A brief mental image slithered along involving approaching lips...

"Allow me to introduce your mentor for your first weeks of orientation work. Mr. Holmes, Miss Tonks—Officer Lestrade. Officer Lestrade, these are your students, Mycroft Holmes and Nymphadora Tonks, both outstanding recent graduates of Hogwarts."

"They're sharp 'uns, Greg," Moody chimed in. "Run 'em through the basics. Test 'em. They're the first we've accepted in years, and I expect 'em to be the last for a while, too. Don't waste 'em."

Lestrade smiled, and Mycroft wondered in muddled awe how it was that Moody didn't fall down in helpless adoration. Good lord, Lestrade was gorgeous, and that smile?

"I'll try to live up to your training, Mr. Moody. Not that I think you'll allow me to let you down." Lestrade turned back and studied his two new students. Humor flashed in his eyes. "Okay—we've got the variety pack here, don't we? Or are we playing 'opposites' this week?"

Tonks, miraculously calm, laughed. "Mod and Medieval, that's us. "

"Sounds like a new rock group," Lestrade said. "You play?"

Tonks shrugged. "Mostly just sing along and throw myself in the mosh pit."

Lestrade turned to Mycroft. "And you? Musician or mosh-pit?"

Mycroft, still stunned, said, "What's a mosh pit?"

Tonks sniggered, covering her mouth. "Be nice, sir. I know he's a bit stuffy—but he was one of the nicer Slytherins at Hogwarts. He's really, really smart and he wasn't mean, okay? He just seems a bit shaky today."

Lestrade was merciful, and turned to look back toward Tonks. "Yeah. And you're what? Hufflepuff, right?"

"Smart Hufflepuff, sir," Mycroft forced himself to say. Tonks had been good enough to stand up for him—he wasn't going to fail to return the favour. "I know everyone thinks Hufflepuffs are just slow and easy, but she could beat the best Ravenclaw of our year to a standstill. Very smart Hufflepuff. Very smart indeed."

"So—a nice, smart Slytherin, and a smart, nice Hufflepuff." Lestrade considered. "Okay, then. I'm only middling smart—and Mr. Moody's regularly seen fit to doubt that. And after the last six years doing DMLE work, I'm not nice, either. But I'm a good Gryffindor war horse, and a good cop, so with luck I'll be just nice enough and just smart enough to see us through."

Kingsley and Moody exchanged glances and nods, then Kingsley said, "We'll leave you all to it, then. Mr. Lestrade, always a pleasure. Mr. Holmes, Miss Tonks—we accept few of you, and Mr. Lestrade's one of the best we've had in recent years. Give him your respect and your attention and I'm sure you'll do well."

And then they left, and Mycroft found himself alone a dingy little duty room with Nyphadora Tonks and someone who made him want to faint in coils...and he wasn't going to mention reeling and writhing, as the thought of reeling and writhing anywhere near Officer Lestrade made him feel dizzy and in need of a little lie-down.

He didn't know how he got through the morning. By lunch he was at his wits' end, and considering resigning and retiring to the country for life. He bought a sausage in a bun, and retreated to the fountain in the heart of the Ministry of Magic to eat, and try to plan. His intentions didn't get far.

"Wotcher!"

He gave her a reproving look, and bit the sausage. "Mmmmph."

She grinned. "Don't mumble with your mouth full."

"Hello, Tonks. I'm brooding. I'll see you after lunch. Goodbye, Tonks."

"Such a welcome! I bet you say that to all the girls." She chuckled, a bit too knowingly. "And, yes...I guessed. And you're right: Lestrade's to die for. I felt the same way about Ephraim Bannersaltz my sixth year. My brains just turned to goo." She sighed. "Oh, those blue, blue eyes."

"Brown," Mycroft corrected her, then blushed.

"Ephraim's were blue. Lestrade's? Yeah. Brown. Dark chocolate, too—the good stuff." She elbowed him, gently. "Yeah, you got it bad."

"You're drowning me in Hufflepuff nice," Mycroft grumbled. "I'm a Slytherin."

"Yeah, but you're a nice Slytherin," she assured him.

He sighed. "Please, spare me. I'm nothing of the sort."

He attempted a look of reserved dignity. She only giggled at him, then asked, "Ok. Let's compare notes: I'm a metamorphmagus, strong patronus, good duelist, top grades. I know you've got a strong patronus, too—raven, right?"

"Right—but some trouble summoning it reliably."

"Weird. Trouble concentrating? That doesn't seem like you."

"Shortage of happy memories, I suspect," he said, dryly. "I'm not exactly a chipper person."

"Color me 'not surprised.' Any additional talents?"

"Slight talent for Parseltongue, strong Arithmancy, strong Occulmens. Um... I'm told I could be a strong Legilimancer if I could get over the reaction."

"Reaction?"

"I don't do well with all the..." he stopped, trying to refrain from shuddering. "Most people have very messy minds. Loud and messy. I get a bit overwhelmed."

"Mmmm. Gotcha." She looked at him soberly. "You're a good duelist, though. I remember when you joined the Hogsmeade Dueling Club."

He nodded. With no duelling club in the school, those interested in the skills had attended local club practices. Mycroft had enjoyed it—it gave him an excuse to get out of the school, and he found working with the range of different talents interesting.

"You're not a metamorphmagus: we'd have studied together if you had been. Animagus?"

"Not that I can tell."

"Why are you training for Auror?"

He looked at Tonks, frowning slightly. "Why are you?"

Her lips tightened. "Because we need Aurors. Good Aurors. I can, I think. So—you?"

"Because I don't think the War's really over," Mycroft said. "Almost everyone else does. I don't."

"And you're on which side?" she asked. Being a very Hufflepuff sort of person, her question didn't sound like the accusation it often would have been.

"Dumbledor's."

She nodded. "Yeah. Okay. That's good. " She stood then, and offered her hand. "Lestrade's going to take us to a crime scene this afternoon. Ready for that?"

Mycroft moaned. "Only if I can wear a blindfold and ear filters—between looking at him and listening to him I'm going to be a wreck."

She smiled in sympathy. "Hang on. You trust me to do some magic on you?"

He frowned. "Maaaaybe? What?"

"Something I worked out when I went into fugue over Ephriam. Little spell. Can I try?"

He nodded.

She slipped her wand out, and frowned, thinking carefully. Then she made a complex little motion, with a spiral twist at the end. "Comportamento."

Mycroft felt as though a cool, smooth sheet were draped over him—cold linen on a hot summer day, water condensing on a glass of iced lemonade, a breeze through sheer curtains. He was enwrapped in a feeling of relaxation, calm, and relief. "Oh..."

"Yeah. Nice, eh? Makes it a lot easier to think, too."

"How long does it last?"

"About two hours, but I'll find a way to top you up later this afternoon, if you need it."

He smiled at her, tentatively. "Thanks."

"No prob. Glad to help. After all—we're partners now, aren't we? 'Aurors in Training!' That's us, ennit?"

"I... suppose we are," he replied. "Mod and Medieval."

"Medieval and Mod. We rock."

"We may even roll."

"Hell, yeah. Let's go carpe some diem," she said, grinning.

.

By owl from Hogwarts:

.

Mycroft,

You're no fair. I'd really like to go to Beaux Batons (see? I memorized!) or Durmstrang (storm and stress—I remember). But Gryffindor's going to be okay. Harry Potter and his pal Ron Weasley have been rotten to that human-born girl, Hermione, so I invited her to sit with me at the table. She's a bit boring—much too full of herself, and she doesn't understand that reading books is not the same thing as being smart. But she's smart enough. Smarter than most people. And there's a boy named Neville, with a toad, which is really cool, and I did an experiment on it and now it's Gryffindor red and gold stripes, which makes it a lot easier to find. He's got a Rememberall, but he can't remember where he put it. So I'm going to nick it and see if I can get the spells apart to see how it works.

Harry Potter flies well—and they're breaking the rules and putting him on the Gryffindor quidditch team. That's not fair. Draco Malfoy's really upset. He loves quidditch, but Professor Snape won't let him on the Slytherin team. I told him quidditch is stupid, but that at least his Housemaster didn't cheat. I think he liked that. You'd know better than me, though—I still think people are harder than anything else. Still—he says I'm smarter than some of the Slytherin boys he rooms with. I told him if they're stupid they're not worth his time anyway, so he's not seeing Crabbe and Goyle as much. Instead he and I are trying to see which of us can complete the most extra credit assignments in Potions first. Professor Snape says we're menaces. But he almost smiles when he says it, so I guess that's all right.

I am sending you a box of brownies—I asked the house elves to make them for you. You're right—if you're polite to house elves, they'll do all sorts of favors for you! Oh, and they remember you. They said to tell you they hope you're doing well in Auror training... And they said that if I was as nice to them as you were, they'd take really good care of me. Which I think is a hint, but I'm not sure about what.

How were you nice to house elves, Mycroft? Draco's really impressed at the brownies, and wants to know, because he says his family can't get half such nice things out of theirs.

Oh. Hermione says I'd look good in Slytherin green and silver, but that I look even better in Gryffindor red and gold. And she likes the picture of you and me that I keep on the dresser. And she's making me read Hogwarts: A History. It's really interesting, but not as interesting as she thinks it is. And she says that I'm better than most boys. Since I think she's better than most girls, that's all right.

I'll write later, but I wanted to tell you how it was all going. Thanks for the big letter last time. And—I'll be all right at Hogwarts. Even as a Gryffindor. It helps having a friend in Slytherin. I don't feel quite so bad.

Your brother,

Sherlock.

.

Dear Sherlock,

Thank you so much for the brownies. I needed them very much this week. Chocolate is a consolation and a blessing. Chocolate brownies with peanut butter frosting almost make up for anything.

Auror training is going very well. Lestrade is a better teacher than I am a student. I keep getting a bit muddled. Tonks says I'll get over it.

I'm very pleased to be working with Tonks. She's likely to be a partner of mine on and off for years to come—it's good that I think she's a great partner. I got lucky.

It sounds like you're doing very well as a Gryffindor. I'm proud of you. You're learning. I am happy you've got three friends already. That's very impressive.

I was good to the house elves by always saying please and thank you, remembering that they're busiest right before and after meals, that they don't get paid—so a bit of a money gift can make a huge difference in how they're able to get by. Most of all, though, I listened to them—and while they think of it as a favour to them, I considered it a gift to myself. There's almost nothing the house elves don't hear or learn about, and they love to talk. They're a superb resource.

The Malfoys are notorious for their abuse of their help—but you should not say that directly to Draco. Just tell him that the Holmes family considers our house elves to be under our care and protection and leave it at that. No need to be offensive, brat. (Yes, I'm dropping a hint. Again.)

Today I got a familiar. Yes, I always said I wouldn't, but this one found me. I was walking down Diagon Alley when a grey parrot flew up and landed on my shoulder. I went everywhere on the street, but none of the stores recognized her...and even if they had, she seemed to like me, so I decided I'd keep her. She's quite unexpectedly funny. Very sweet. She can talk—she says, "Evermore, evermore!" Whoever taught her has a sense of humor. Oh, and she grabs my fringe and hangs upside down and nibbles my nose.

I'm calling her "Anthea," because even if she's grey, she's pretty as a flower. When she brings you this letter, give her the cracker I've tucked in the envelope as a reward—she likes crackers.

Make friends in all the houses, brother-mine. Each has things to offer. Right now my best friend is a Hufflepuff, and my teacher's a Gryffindor, and they're both the best I can imagine.

Thanks again for the brownies. They were a life saver.

Love, your brother,

Mycroft

.

Mycroft—

Anthea's wicked! And maybe if she nibbles your nose, someday it won't be such a big old beak.

She ate the cracker right up and the house elves brought up a whole bowl. I remembered to say "thank you," and Draco and Hermione and Neville did, too.

So, see? We're paying attention! You'd be proud of us. We are going to form a pirate crew, and take over Hogwarts this week—if Hermione lets us. I'm looking in Hogwarts: A History for precedent. Hermione's big on precedent.

Yours from House Gryffindor, Ye Pirate Kinge Sherlocke Holmes!

.

Dear Professor Dumbledore:

Enclosed please find a copy of my brother Sherlock's latest epistle, the burden of which might best be expressed as "prepare to be boarded."

Pirates to port, pirates to starboard.

Consider yourself warned,

Yours respectfully,

Mycroft Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those in doubt about the degree of smitten-ness I give Mycroft should please go look up photos of the young Rupert Graves. The man was Love's Young Dream—seriously unfair. I considered giving Mycroft more reserve and restraint, but kept coming back to him being eighteen, and likely getting his first major adult crush. Reserve seemed unlikely.
> 
> The reeling and writhing and fainting in coils is a reference to Alice in Wonderland.
> 
> The brownies with peanut butter frosting are a memory from a former school I attended. To die for—simply to die for.
> 
> Going by Potter timeline, Tonks would have been in the same graduating class as Mycroft, and would have been going into Auror training at the same time, with her formal superior being Alastor Moody. For a number of reasons I'm having Kingsley Shacklebolt be the official mentor of record for Mycroft.
> 
> I hope you are all still having fun. Comments always welcome! Thanks. TT


	4. The Leaves They Do Grow Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Tonks settle into their auror training.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH! HELP! I am informed Monty's French is execrable to the native speaker. This is quite likely. If you can help repair everything but the Montgomery motto, I'd be much obliged. Such French as I have is a combo of antique high school French and Google Translate.
> 
> One of the more challenging things about this is that an 18-year-old Mycroft just doesn't and can't have the authoritas and worldly power of Sherlock's Mycroft. The show's Mycroft is a man in his mid- to late forties, whose overall bio, to the limited extent we know it, suggests a long, complex, and highly successful history of service to the British government. He almost has to have done a variety of things to have the power and scope of responsibility he's presented as having. That would mean analytical work, certainly, but also practical hands-on covert and overt ops with the Secret Service, and real first-hand experience working with national and international factions. Mycroft as presented on the show is a man just coming into the full strength of his professional prime, with a huge amount of clout and the background experience and training to justify that.
> 
> True Slytherin's Mycroft is eighteen, just graduated from the equivalent of high school, going into an apprenticeship in law enforcement and government. He's got school contacts, yes—but only such respect as his lineage, his school record, and his network of associates would provide at that stage of his life.
> 
> As a result I find myself aiming him toward him becoming a really good and really fluent Auror, rather than trying to pretend he's anything like at Dumbledore and Shacklebolt's levels of authority and experience. With Tonks to play to and play with, that's sort of heading me in an "Avengers" Steed and Peel direction for now.
> 
> But, then, that's no bad thing. Holmes and Tonks as Steed and Peel is a pretty notion in its own right. (grin)
> 
> PS: Harry and Sherlock will end up friends, and will be in and out of the story, but this is really Mycroft's tale. A lot of Harry and Sherlock's tale will show up in letters (epistolary narrative), though they may also get some on-screen time as well. We'll see. Even I'm having to discover how this story works...

[ ](http://s1015.photobucket.com/user/pegeel/media/mycroft_zpsf975ac04.jpg.html)

 

 

**The Leaves They Grow Green**

By owl from Hogwarts:

_My dear Mycroft,_

_Ah, the bright and shining passions of youth! I confess, I find piracy on the seven seas an unlikely pastime to pursue here in the highlands around Hogwarts; however, I can but admire your brother's commitment to his nautical ambitions. I admire still more what appears to be an interesting coalition of companions. Gryffindors and a Slytherin; young Longbottom and the daughter of Muggles consorting with the son of a Death Eater... Whatever else, your brother brings together such diverse elements within our community!_

_Thanks to your timely communication, I believe House Heads McGonagall and Snape and I will be able to deal with our expected invasion effectively on multiple levels. Do let me know if, on next hearing from your brother, you approve of our solution to the situation._

_I have been told by our mutual friend, Mr. Shacklebolt, that you are advancing well in your training as an Auror. I cannot begin to express my satisfaction upon hearing this. It is ever a joy to a teacher to see a student succeed as an adult._ _**Non scholae, sed vitae discimus*** _ _—may the lessons learned at Hogwarts support you in your life to come._

_Do feel free to remain in touch, both with regards to young Sherlock, and in regards to your career and ongoing studies. Insofar as the first is concerned, I consider you a vital element in my defences against your brother's capacity for proselytizing the pirate life-style amongst my students. As for your career—consider me a committed sponsor and mentor, viewing your progress with avid enthusiasm and the very best wishes,_

_Yours with gratitude and affection,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

XXXXX

"Holmes, that's brill," Tonks said, eyes wide as she considered the umbrella Olivander had just handed Mycroft. "What's it for?"

"Primarily broad-scale defensive magics." While Olivander's primary attention was on Mycroft, he was only too willing to explain the features of this commission. "It is a poor choice for casting precision spells, but it is superb at blanket-spells, and maintains impressively high levels of support and energy for defensive work. It is in many ways much the magical equivalent of a knight's shield."

"Also exceptionally effective in a thunderstorm," Mycroft added, with a quick smile at his training partner. "It doesn't turn inside out no matter how much wind there is, and the rain-shadow is wide enough to keep three dry."

"Well, then," she said, grinning, "I'll know who to go to in a storm, won't I?"

"Always," he smiled back, meaning it completely.

Having a partner and friend was new to him—he tended to have associates, but few close friends, and he'd worked alone as student. Working with Tonks was a new experience. While he studied privately with Kingsley Shacklebolt for several hours a week, focusing on understanding the structure, methods, and key factions within the Ministry of Magic, he took practicum courses in defense against dark magic and in such areas as metamorph training with other teachers, usually with Tonks, as well as the field work they both did with Lestrade. Having a constant partner was a revelation—and one that made him aware of how lonely he had often been before.

They worked well together. She was comfortable with people—brassy, cheery, cheeky, kind. He was more reserved and formal, but his instinct for almost infinitely detailed observation and analysis couldn't be beaten. She was by far the better at disguise and at blending in—Mycroft struggled with the metamorph magic that came so naturally to her. She, however, had no talent for the stealth skills he managed without difficulty—indeed, she was so bad that she'd ended up begging him for help with the agility and balance exercises Alastor Moody had assigned her to try to eliminate her infinite ability to turn into a complete klutz at a moment's notice. Each helped the other while providing just a touch of challenge. Both fought well: Tonks was a brilliant aggressive fighter, bold and decisive, where Mycroft was all subtle science and control. In the words of Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was observing the new team with great interest, "She makes you up your game, Holmes. But you do the same for her. You're one of the most promising pairings I've seen in decades, and you're both becoming better than you would have been alone."

They trained together, ate together, practiced together, and played together. They consoled each other for unrequited crushes, argued about fashion and style, bickered endlessly about their deeply different tastes in music. He liked jazz—she loved punk. He liked classical—she yawned, and danced to heavy metal. Most of all, though, they just were what they were. Holmes and Tonks. Tonks and Holmes.

Mycroft seldom let himself think about it, for fear of jinxing perfection.

"Here, let's give it a try," he said, giving the umbrella a quick shake. "I'll try a  _peredo_  spell. Attack with whatever you think might make it past. Mr. Olivander, if you'd retreat behind the counter, to be sure you're not in the line of play, it might be best."

"Yes, yes, but let me set up some recording spells—I want to study the results," Olivander said. "Only take a moment, I knew I'd want to do this." He pulled out several prepared devices, and quickly activated their controlling charms. "Proceed, my friends, do proceed!"

Mycroft considered his options. He could open the umbrella, but that would work best for stationary wide-aspect spells. For mobile spells it would probably be best to keep the umbrella rolled and use it like a single-stick or policeman's baton—one conveniently supplied with a spike on one side and a hook on the other. The primary problem with that was refocusing the distribution of the spell: most wand work assumed a wand held in a pointing position, whereas much of what Mycroft imagined doing with his umbrella would demand a grip in mid-body, such as was used in a number of stick-fighting and cane-fighting styles. In this grip, the spell could be visualized as blooming outward from the fist, with the length of the umbrella providing a supporting axis.

He closed his eyes and structured the spell in his mind, pushing the energy through his hand and into the umbrella—feeling the energy spark in the looped lemniscate core of Jörmungandr skin and then feed back, amplified beyond all expectation. It felt like being anchored in the depths of the Marianas Trench: deep, dark, mysterious, with pressure enough to crush steel. Serpent song whispered in his ears like surf.

"Whoa. It rocks. Weird looking, but wicked." Tonks' voice was admiring.

Mycroft trusted his discipline enough to risk opening his eyes.

"I don't see anything," he said.

"You may not. To me it looks like you've got a nearly invisible shield of... I don't know. It's...it's like the aurora borealis shining on waves at night or something. Awesome. Really awesome."

"Hmmm. Might work better if it's completely invisible," Mycroft said. "Why let enemies know it's there, or where it is? Give me a moment to try to tune it." He closed his eyes again, retreating to the inner kingdom of thought and magic where he constructed his spells—a mental palace. Not everyone used this visualization method for spell-casting, but it had always served Mycroft well for initial learning and for creative crafting. He considered the spell, his own focus, the effect of the Jörmungandr skin, and attempted to adjust them to maintain strength but reduce visuals. "Is that better?"

"Yeah. Can't see anything, now."

Mycroft nodded, and opened his eyes again. "Attack at will, then."

She was fast and tough, and the spell she shot toward him sizzled the air as it passed. He raised his fist and met the flare—and was satisfied when the bolt was eaten up instantly, passing no further than the imagined plane of his "shield."

"Nice!" Tonks said, before shooting another spell off without warning. He had to shift to parry it—and it came in beyond the outer edge of what he expected the shield to cover. In spite of that, the energy disappeared, and he felt the bolt actually add to his power, not detract.

"My goodness," he said. "This thing literally devours your attacks! Instead of sapping energy, it's sucking it up!"

"Oh, now that's sweet," Tonks said. "See what this one does, though." The spell she tossed his way coursed down her wand, surged across the space between them, and hit.

The shield held, but left Mycroft sitting on the floor, clutching his stomach and trying not to be ill.

"What was that?"

"One of the Unforgivables. Cruciatus."

He moaned, softly. "You risked that on me?"

"Didn't think it was much risk. That brolly of yours is something." She came to squat beside him. "What got through?"

"Technically, nothing. But that one doesn't add to the energy—blocking it was hard. And...the last time I felt this way, Miss Pomfrey kept me in the infirmary for almost a week solid—and I felt so awful I didn't mind."

"Good to know it has that effect, then, eh?"

He grimaced, and accepted a hand up. "I suppose. But you owe me a lunch, whenever my stomach recovers enough to hold one down." He looked over at Olivander. "I'm pleased. Are you?"

Olivander beamed at him. "Oh, good heavens, yes! And I got some lovely readings. I think it's ready to go with you, now, though. But be sure to bring it around if you've got any problems, and do keep me informed about how it works. The results are quite interesting."

"Agreed," Mycroft said. "I'll have Gringotts' send around the payment, then. My thanks, Mr. Olivander. You did splendid work. Oh—Do you mind? That's my familiar outside, and she appears to have a message." He cracked the door open, and Anthea flipped into the shop, dropping an envelope on the counter before studying her surroundings with interest.

"Ah—a letter from my brother, Sherlock. You remember him?"

"Spalted poplar, unicorn hair core—and the blackthorn wand kept aside for future accomplishments. Yes. A good deal of potential in need of discipline." Olivander looked curiously at Anthea. "Would she like a ginger nut?"

"She would adore one. She's quite fond of treats." Mycroft weighed the envelope on his hand. It was unusually heavy: Sherlock tended to brief letters that kept to the point. He made his complaints, or presented his brags, asked questions, and was done. This felt more substantial, and Mycroft decided he'd prefer to save it until he was somewhere he could give it sufficient attention. He slipped it into his pocket, and watched while Anthea flirted with Olivander for the sake of a single ginger nut.

"The parrots are considered among the smartest of familiars," Olivander said. "Uncanny, sometimes."

"Certainly she's more useful and interesting than most of the familiars I've seen," Mycroft agreed.

"He means he dotes on the silly dear," Tonks said, ruffling the bird's neck feathers.

"I do not dote."

"Do. You let her ride on your head the other day, Mycroft."

"Only because the jacket I was wearing didn't give much traction," he said, firmly. "She kept slipping off."

"And the times she hangs from your fringe and nibbles your nose?"

He sniffed. "It's just her way of showing affection."

She looked merrily at Olivander. "See? He dotes."

"I do  _not_ dote. And we're due to rendezvous with Officer Lestrade in an hour. If we want to grab a cuppa and still arrive early, we should leave, now," Mycroft said, determined to end Tonks' exploration of his affection for his familiar as soon as possible. He knew a losing argument when it hit him, and this one was doomed—as was any hope of dignity. He patted his shoulder. "Come on, then, Anthea. We're off." He collected Tonks with a glance, and swept out of the shop, praying she wasn't laughing too hard. Or at least, not too openly...

XXXXX

They left Diagon Alley by way of the Leaky Cauldron, where they stopped for a fast lunch. Mycroft ordered a bowl of soup with bread, and tea; Tonks ordered a steak and kidney pie with ale and a basket of chips. As their food arrived, Mycroft slipped the letter from his pocket, saying, "It's a letter from my little brother. Mind if I read it?"

"No, go ahead. I've got to review the notes on our forensics assignment anyway."

Mycroft nodded, and tore the envelope open.

.

_Mycroft—_

_We won 100 points for Gryffindor and Slytherin and Hufflepuff! And we took over the Astronumy Tower and flew the Jolly Roger! It was totally brilliant! Professor Dumbledore said it was the best inter-house prank he'd seen in fifty years! And he and Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall called us up in front of the entire school at dinner time and gave us ribbons and said they were proud of us—that we thought of a great idea that didn't hurt anyone!_

_They're going to start an inter-house prank competition, and the winner gets a flagon of never-ending butterbeer at the end of the year. The rules are that the prank can't hurt anyone or do permanent damage, and it has to be done by people from at least two houses, with points going to each house that helps._

_Professor Dumbledore says we've started a whole new Hogwarts tradishion!_

_Are you proud of us?_

_You should have been here with us. Neville and Hermione are friends with Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley, from Hufflepuff. At first they didn't want to join us for the pirate invasion, but Hermione and Neville promised we wouldn't hurt anyone, which was really annoying and Draco and I thought we might just be pirates alone without their help so we could fight that stupid Percy Weasley, who may be in my house but he's so full of himself it's enough to make you sick, just because he's a prefect, which is stupid, and no one in their right mind would want to be a prissy old prefect._

_Well, except you. But you're really not normal, are you? I mean, you're even being an Aurer, now, which Draco says is dangerous, and we wanted to say you should quit being an Aurer because I'd really hate it if you got hurt when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named comes back, which Draco says his father says his friends say is going to happen any time now. Anyway, you're crazy enough to have been prefect and Head Boy and now you're an Aurer, and you have to admit that's really not normal. And people think I'm weird!_

_So, anyway, we wanted to capture Percy and make him walk the plank, but then Hermione and Neville got Susan and Justin to join us, and they made us get rid of all the really fun stuff._

_The House Elves showed us how to use the service tunnels and stuff to move around, and we planted flags all over the school, and then we climbed the tower and locked all the doors and hung our flag and sang "Dead Man's Chest," and dropped notes down saying we wouldn't give the tower back until Professor Dumbledore gave everyone a day off from classes. We were up there a few hours. Hermione studied, because she had a test coming up, but the rest of us played wizard chess and go-fish using chocolate frog wizard cards. I got eight Morgan Le Fays for one hand. The deck wouldn't come out even, because we all had different sets. Then Professor Dumbledore came up himself on a broomstick, and asked for rightful parley, and waved a white flag, and we allowed him to come aboard and we didst set forth terms and conditions. Professor Dumbledore says that's what pirates do when they negotiate with the lawful thorities. And so the whole school gets a day off, and we get ribbons, and Hermione's annoyed because now her test isn't till next week. Draco and Neville and I wanted to know what the problem was, because now she's done her studying and has even more time for fun than we do, but I think it's a Hermione thing._

_Harry Potter and his pal Ron Weasley are mad at us, because we're friends with Hermione and with Draco, but we don't care. They're the kind of loud, braggy kind of Gryffindor you warned me about, so we're just ignoring them and being friends anyway._

_Mycroft, please don't be an Aurer? I'm really worried about you. Draco's scared, because his mother and father think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is going to kill everyone who stands against him when he comes back, and they're trying to get their friends and relations to either join the Death Eaters now or get out of the country while they still can. Draco says they've heard something, but won't say what, and the whole family is upset and excited at once. He's worried, and he doesn't know what to think because everyone here thinks He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was awful, but his parents think he was someone really important—but they're scared of him, too. And Draco just worries about it, only he doesn't tell anyone. But he told me because I observed, like you taught me, and guessed it, and we had a big fight about it, and I told him that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named couldn't be all that important because you can't be important if everyone has to go around not saying your name. I mean that's just stupid, isn't it? And then Draco told me everything. And he cried, but he says he didn't, it was just dust, but I observed better than that. And I told him I'd write you and ask you to stop being an Aurer and to tell us what to do, because Draco doesn't know who to believe anymore._

_I liked playing pirates better._

_Susan Bones got in a fight with Draco because she said she didn't want to play with a Slytherin because Death Eaters killed her family, and Draco said her family shouldn't have fought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Neville said that people shouldn't have to do what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named told them, and that Death Eaters hurt his family, too, and I thought it was all going to come apart and I was really angry and scared, and I told them they were all stupid and that if we weren't going to play pirate I was going to go back to the Gryffindor tower and practice my fiddle._

_And then Hermione said, "Oh, no, not that!" And then everyone laughed. And then they stopped fighting and we sang "My Name is William Kidd, as we sailed, as we sailed."_

_Mycroft, I don't do this stuff. The thing with people fighting and all that. I don't do it. I didn't even get into Slytherin, with all the twisty thinking. I'm a Gryffindor after all, I guess. You're good at this. What should I do?_

_I'm sorry. I was all excited about Dumbledore liking our pirate invasion, and now I'm being stupid. Maybe I shouldn't send this letter. But it's getting hard to figure out how to keep all my friends, and I never had friends before. I don't want it to go wrong, and it's not like it's easy stuff. It's bad stuff, and I don't like it. So I'm sending it anyway, because you'll know what to do._

_Your brother,_

_Sherlock._

"Problems," Tonks asked from her side of the table.

Mycroft considered, absently giving Anthea a neck-tickle as he reviewed the letter. "Yes. Tonks, will you look at this and see what you think?" When she nodded, he handed the letter across.

She read it carefully, laughing at first, as Sherlock described the Great Pirate Invasaion, but then frowning as the letter continued. "It wasn't this bad at Hogwarts when we were there, was it?" she asked, uneasily. "I mean, everyone remembers the Wizarding War, but I don't remember anyone being scared You-Know-Who would come back, and I don't remember people getting into fights over what side kids' families fought on."

Mycroft frowned. "You were in Hufflepuff. I don't think it shows so much in Hufflepuff. Your House never had many people on Voldemort's side to begin with, and, well—you're Hufflepuffs. It was worse in Slytherin, but mainly because everyone thought it was all right to treat all of us like we were on Voldemort's side no matter what anyway. But I don't remember it being like this, no. I think having Harry Potter in the school's probably stirring some of that up. People are reminded, and they take sides. The thing is, it's not good." He took the letter from her, frowning over it.

"Nope." Tonks tugged the letter back out of his hands, and read it again..."Cute kid. He like that all the time?"

Mycroft nodded. "He's very smart. He's also not very good with people."

She flashed him a grin. "I kind of got that. But he's doing pretty well, from the sounds of it."

"Well—after all,  _pirates_ ," Mycroft said. "It's not easy to resist pirates."

"This is true," Tonks conceded. "The rest of it? I don't know, Mycroft. I haven't heard anything about You-Know-Who coming back. It could just be one of those school rumors. Remember second year, when someone decided that the Bloody Baron was going to possess all you Slytherins and then you'd turn into crazy serial murderers? And all the weird stories about things in the basements? And the time Myfanwy Evans said she saw a vision in the tub in the Prefect's Bathroom? It could be like that—just talk."

"I suppose," he said, uneasily. "But—we've got to get going, now. We're going to be late for Officer Lestrade if we don't hurry."

She chuckled. "And God forbid we disappoint Officer Greg Lestrade," she said, grinning, as they headed for a set of port keys in the back areaway, and flipped themselves away to their rendezvous.

XXXXX

They arrived in Caltrop Court on time, but by no means early. Officer Lestrade was already there, along with a team consisting of three other members of the DMLE, including two representatives of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Lestrade introduced his team as Officer Donovan, and MMAO agent Arthur Weasley and his assistant, Perkins.

"It's a raid," Lestrade said. "You two kids, I want you to stay well back. This is your first chance to observe how this plays out, but you're not ready to take part, yet. Donovan, Weasley and Perkins have all done this before, and are experienced. So this time, watch and learn. Next time you may get your chance to go in wands drawn."

"What are you after?" Mycroft asked, curious what was critical enough to justify an attack in what appeared to be one of the lowest neighbourhoods of wizarding London.

"Enchanted Walkmen—music players," Weasley said. "Black marketers use them to brainwash Muggles into serving as carriers for smuggled goods. Among other things. Some of the old Death Eater clubs use them for other forms of brainwashing. There's an unpleasant trade in Muggles for the sex industry and for slaves."

Mycroft felt dirty just thinking about it—dirtier because he knew too well some of the people who'd be in the market for such services and slaves. Between old Pure Blood associates of his parents and some of the most corrupt of his fellow Slytherins, he had no illusions about how low the wizarding world could sink. He gulped and nodded, moving back as Lestrade assembled his team and prepared for their raid.

"It's up a block and over," he said. "We've had a watch on it these past three days. The Vesiers are there, so we can clean that family out, even if we miss some of their crew. Donovan and I will take point. Arthur, you and Perkins come in behind. Sally and I will be using immobilization spells, but we may need backup. Be primed with tangle-foot and net spells, yeah?"

Weasley nodded. "We're ready, Greg. You've check to be sure there are no open chimneys and no portkeys?"

"Got a freeze-travel on the whole building."

"Let's move out, then. I don't want to risk them getting word we're coming."

The four senior members of the team shifted, moving into a fast march that swept them through the cluster of narrow old alleys around Caltrop Court. Tonks and Mycroft found they had to shift to a slow lope to keep up—the pace set by Lestrade's group was deceptive. Out of the corner of his eye Mycroft saw Tonks draw her wand. He himself slipped out the wand of Perlesvaus, while shifting his umbrella to the same defensive grip he'd used in Olivander's earlier. He pushed energy into the shield spell, feeling like a knight going into battle.

The dingy streets were ugly and manky, with grime and litter spread over everything. The buildings looked like they were covered in soot dating back to the Great Fire of London in 1666. Soon the team had reached a narrow Elizabethan half-timbered house with a door barely wide enough to let through a thin man with his arms crossed.

Lestrade didn't even seem to pause, hitting the timber so hard the door popped wide, and continuing on, shouting, "DMLE! Raid! Everyone down, hands on your heads!"

Donovan followed close behind—then, more cautiously, Weasley and Perkins.

Mycroft and Tonks hung back. The building was small, and already full. There were sounds of violence—but nothing that indicated their services were needed.

"Bit of a let-down, eh?" Tonks groused. "All ready to provide back-up. Best approved Alastor Moody charms and defences, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded, still holding tight to the Wand of Perlesvaus and his umbrella. He didn't like this street. He glanced up and down, noting the slink and slide of residents as they peered out their doors, or down from leaded windows.

"They don't like us much, here," he murmured.

"Not much, they don't," Tonks agreed.

She and Mycroft shifted, forming a solid team, putting their backs together, angled so they could watch both the door and the street.

Inside, things seemed under control. Outside they were less sure.

"Gardez bien!" a voice shouted. "Up on the roof!"

Even as the voice sounded, Mycroft saw the smack of spellwork spatter over Tonks. She fell, with a shriek. Mycroft threw himself over her, swearing, bringing up his shield. Another spell pounded down, and was swallowed up. Mycroft tracked along the upper line of the buildings, and spotted the sniper. With a shake he'd sent a full body-bind spell at the figure far above.

Behind him came a crash and a shout as Arthur Weasley and Lestrade charged out the door, wands at the ready.

"Report,"Lestrade snapped.

"Sniper, roof. I think I got him with a body-bind. Hit Tonks though."

A door slammed and a dark-haired young man raced down the cobbled street. "Good shot. I think you got him." As three wands all swung toward him, he raised his hands. "Mes regrets, voulaient pas vous effrayer—didn't mean to scare you. Sorry."

Mycroft looked sharply at the newcomer. "Monty?"

"My?"

"Oh for God's sake, what are  _you_ doing here?"

"Slumming?"

"I don't believe it. Was it you who shouted?"

Monty shrugged. "Old Montgomery battle cry."

"Saved my life, I think," Mycroft said, then glanced down at Tonks, worried. "Not so sure about my friend." His fingers explored, and he frowned as he tried to marshal his still-limited field diagnostic skills. While he was still trying to recall how to determine spell type and damage, Lestrade pushed in, quickly checking the young witch's condition.

"Not so good," he muttered, eyes bleak. "It was a killing curse. Don't think it landed square-on, but I'm not sure it's going to help."

Monty squatted by the three other wizards. "I can help some. I'm in the training program at St. Mungo's. But you want to send for real help—and soon. It's not good. Most of what I can provide is support...it will buy time, no more."

"Arthur, send word. Emergency, officer down, medics now." Lestrade's command was fierce.

"Got it, Greg," Weasley said, clearly focused on his task. A second later light seemed to rage around him and shoot out, as a weasel patronus raced off, bounding toward St. Mungo's.

Mycroft felt a flutter of panic. He'd never really thought of the danger of the job in terms of Tonks, and her possible death. It had mainly been a matter of imaginary messages sent to Mummy and eulogies citing Holmesian heroism and the honor of dying young for a cause. Tonks wasn't supposed to be lying on the mucky cobbles, skin white, her usual gaudy hair reverting to a drab mouse brown. Without thinking he slipped his hand around hers, clinging tight.

He'd never had a partner before, or a friend so close as Tonks. He found to his terror that he wasn't ready to lose the only one he'd had.

He looked around, trying to think.

"Anthea!"

The bird circled down to him, landing with a snap of flight feathers by his ear. Mycroft scrabbled in his pockets, found the letter from Sherlock, and a pencil stub. He tore off a piece of envelop, scribbled frantically, and handed it to Anthea, letting her grip it in one claw. "Go—go to Olivander's. Bring back what he sends."

The bird was off with a clap of wings.

Mycroft turned back, looking down at Tonks, and at Lestrade and Monty leaning over her. "What can I do to help?"

Lestrade risked a glance up, and his brown eyes softened. "She's your partner. Hang on. Let her know not to quit."

Mycroft gave a short, worried nod, adding a second hand to wrap around hers. "Tonks, you are not to leave. Do you understand? I won't have it."

"God, you still sound like Lord High Pure Blood," Monty chuckled, without taking his attention from his patient. His wand was in steady motion, spells constant and even. "You always were such a priss when your family came up to visit."

Mycroft glowered. "At least I didn't pinch the house maids."

"In your case that's not a virtue," Monty snipped. "It's got to be an actual temptation before you can take credit."

Mycroft would normally have darted back with something as pointed. Instead he just grunted, and leaned closer over Tonks. "Come on, my dear. Don't go leaving me. You promised I'd see you in pink hair, next."

Lestrade and Monty were both looking frightened, though each continued with the basic field care they knew to provide. In the distance Mycroft could hear sirens—but he was fairly sure they were Muggle sirens answering some basic human crisis—nothing to do with the wizarding world.

Lestrade had begun to curse under his breath, when the clap of wings exploded into the air above them again, and Anthea circled down, the wand of willow and jade clutched in her claws. Mycroft let go of Tonks' hand, reaching for the wand before Anthea could even land.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, without taking his eyes off Tonks. He was still working basic first aid spells, though it was increasingly obvious they weren't helping—or not enough.

"An old wand from Olivander's, sir," Mycroft said. "It's supposed to be able to heal."

"Then do it," Lestrade snarled, for the first time showing his own panic. "Now."

"Don't know how," Mycroft gibbered. "Never used it."

"Try."

Mycroft nodded, and closed his eyes, trying to use his skill of observation to pick apart any clue as to how to make the wand do what he wanted. It wasn't an ordinary wand—no more than his umbrella was. Like the umbrella, something deep powered it, something of water and flow, sweet as a spring-fed stream.

"Please," he found himself asking. "Please. For Tonks. Please?"

The response was like the patter of rain—water, spattering from the drooping willow leaves, trickling from the jade handle, flowing from the pierced work, streaming through his fingers, raining down on Tonks' face. Along with the water was a sense of kindness, and peace.

"No. No-no-no," Mycroft said. "I forgot. It can bring peaceful death." He tried to snatch it back, only to have Lestrade grip his wrist, pinning his hand over Tonks, so the water continued to rain down.

"No, kid. It's helping. You got it right."

Mycroft could hear the relief in Lestrade's voice.

"She's steading out—rising—yes. It's working," Monty said, easing back his wand, and drawing a deep breath. "She's healing."

Mycroft clung to the wand, and tried not to cry. Not in front of Lestrade and Monty.

"What is that?" Lestrade asked, curious.

"Compassion," Mycroft said. "It's the wand of the Chinese lady of compassion."

XXXXX

When the medimages had arrived and loaded Tonks up for transport to St. Mungo's, Mycroft finally felt free to insist on examining the entire crime area. The inside of the house was a mess, but his eyes could pick out details. He paced the room, rattling off observations to Lestrade.

"One escaped. You can see he was sitting here at the table—too many cups out for the number you arrested. How did he—ah. Look. A port key—hard to notice. They've hidden it well. Have your people note it, Lestrade. And, look. What? Yes, all right—this bit of writing here, where they were playing cards. Greek, I think. Modern Greek. Someone in the group is Greek speaking." He spread his attention out, catching details almost as though he was catching glints of light flashing off choppy waves, gathering them up and spinning them into a single chord of light. After a time, he said, "The one who escaped. He's in Macedonia, now. His name is Nico, and he's from an old Pure Blood family. His native language is Greek, he drinks Turkish coffee, he's a poor card player—and is likely in debt as a result. Find him, and you'll find his leaders. Find them and you may be able to close off this particular cell."

Lestrade looked at him warily. "Are you sure, Holmes?"

Mycroft nodded, wearily. "I'm sure."

"How did you do it? How do you know?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Call it a family talent, Officer Lestrade. It's just—a knack. But a useful one."

Lestrade shook his head, stunned. "If it plays out, it's more than useful—it's like a whole new magic talent!"

Mycroft shook his head, ruefully. "Not magic. Even a human could do this. I simply observe, Officer." He sighed, then, and stretched. "And after I return the willow wand to Olivander, I want to observe about ten hours of sleep."

Lestrade snorted, and clapped his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "Yeah. It can hit you like that. Hey, sunshine? You did good. Kept your head, fought smart, stood by your partner—and pulled a few miracles out of your...sleeve. So, yeah. You did great. Now, go on. Get some sleep, and check back tomorrow. Okay?"

Mycroft later wondered how he got home—from that point on, all he could remember the glow of Lestrade's praise. That alone seemed to carry him all the way back to his rooms.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Auror, brother-mine. A.U.R.O.R. With an o, not an e. Please, get it right next time? Spelling it the way you do is like the high-pitched whine of Cornish Pixies!_

_No, brat, I won't quit being an Auror in training. I'm proud of the job, I think I'll do it well, and it's among the few positions that would allow me to directly affect any future trouble coming to the wizarding world. Someday I hope to advance in government, but it will be long years before I can hope to wield much power, and in the meantime I can do better work here and learn more than in any other spot I can imagine. And I love the work. I love being partners with Tonks, I love my extra class work, I love learning from Officer Lestrade and from Mr. Shacklebolt and Mr. Moody._

_I will, however, always remember your concern for me. I love you, too, brat._

_And, yes: I'm insanely proud of you and your friends and your brilliant capture of the Astronomy Tower. Dumbledore and the other house heads are right—you were brilliant. You've started a great, great new tradition (tion ending, not shion—oh, and it's "lawful authorities," not "lawful thorities."), and I hope you keep it up._

_Regarding your concerns about how to deal with all the old mess left over from the wizarding war—I've gone out on a limb and decided to write a letter to your friend Draco dealing with some of my answers to all that. I suggest you read it first, think about it, and decide if your friend will want to read a bossy, big-brother letter from a stranger. If you think he's got a use for it, though, share it with him: read it together. Tell him I said you should, and you should talk about it, too. And tell him I want both of you to feel free to write me any time you like about any of this. It's hard to figure this stuff out in Hogwarts: there are too many people from both sides and they're all hurting. Susan Bones, who you mentioned, lost all her family. That's a lot to lose. Your friend Draco, though, has an aunt and uncle in Azkaban, and lost friends and family both during the Wizarding War and after. That's a lot to lose, too. Somehow you've got to get past that._

_Sherlock, caring isn't always an advantage. Sometimes caring about your own side makes it too easy to stop caring about the other side. Sometimes you've got to step back and think a bit more and care a bit less—and understand a lot more. That's true whether you're Slytherin or Gryffindor._

_I know you're not always good with people-stuff, Sherlock. But you're bright, and you're like me: you notice the details and you put them together well. Maybe someday you'll find a way to let your clever eyes and sharp mind make up for your difficulty with the people-stuff. In the meantime, though, don't pretend your good at it. Admit you're a bit not-good, and ask your friends to help you when they can. You'll be surprised how kind they can be, if you let them._

_Sherlock—understand this. You're very, very bright. Brighter than almost anyone I know (well, brighter than almost anyone but me ...). But this is an area in which you are not bright—and in which your friends are. The next time you're tempted to tell them they're stupid—and I know you, brat, you're going to want to tell them they're stupid—just remember they're also smart, just about different things, and in different ways._

_Meanwhile—I've had an adventure in Auror training, and I got to use that new umbrella wand I commissioned from Olivanders. It works. I'll write and tell you more about it next time. And Officer Lestrade said I did great. And Tonks is taking me out into the human part of London, and introducing me to Thai food and mosh pits._

_Be good, brat. Write me. I love you. I'm proud of you._

_Yours,_

_Mycroft (and Anthea)_

_Malfoy_

_With Respect, from : Mr. Mycroft Holmes._

_Dear Draco,_

_I do hope you will forgive me the informality of using your given name. As you are a young Slytherin, newly assigned to my own house, and as my brother Sherlock has spoken so highly of you, I feel it's right that I address you as I would my own brother, and offer you the same support._

_He has written me regarding the complexity of your position in Hogwarts and In Slytherin, caught between loyalty to the Pure Blood factions of older generations, and the changing social norms. I can only sympathize. As a Pure Blood and a Slytherin, I understand the loneliness of being torn between loyalties and viewpoints. One can feel trapped by the fear of betraying those who have claim on bothheart and spirit._

_It is no easy thing to face down the anger and hurt of fellow students whose friends and family have suffered at the hands of political factions you have inherited, but did not choose or create. As a Pure Blood and Slytherin I heard the slurs, and knew the rejection, and like you and Sherlock, I struggled with the question of what I owed my lineage, my heritage, and my House. I do not know if my own conclusions will be of any help, but I offer them for what little they may be worth, with all the respect and sympathy in my heart._

_Draco, Slytherins are the Secret Keepers of the wizarding world. If Gryffindor's truths are all sunshine, we snakes understand the truth of tears, loss, sorrows, secrets, and pain—all the wizarding world's pain. That includes knowing and caring for the loss of those whose people fought on both opposing sides of our recent civil war. The grief of a loyalist of Dumbledore, whose parents died opposing Voldemort, is no less valid than the grief of a Pure Blood parent who has lost kin to death, madness, or to Azkaban through the defense of that Dark Lord._

_To be true Slytherin, start with respect for the equality of grief. Leave the bright-shining houses to their foolish judgements and demands for easy answers and simple forms of justice. Slytherin knows that all tears are equal, and that even the wrong most often do what they think is either right, or necessary._

_For Pure Blood to mean anything, it must serve all the blood of the wizarding world. We cannot rule what we will not embrace fully or respect entirely. This is a hard lesson, and one you can for the most part ignore for now. But keep it in mind. Someday you will be of the generation that chooses—as is each generation in history. Prepare to be true Slytherin, and true Pure Blood now, not by rejecting and excluding all that is unlike you, but by seeing the shared kinships hidden in the shadows and deep waters of our houses and our culture._

_In the meantime though, you're allowed to be kids. You need to be kids. So—might I suggest that having played pirates once, you and Sherlock might wish to consider playing Celtic Wizards next? It allows for quite a lot of blue woad paint, and for the playing of bagpipes, and is thus almost as much fun as pirates. And it should appeal to those such as Susan Bones and this Hermione girl, as the women can go into battle as well as the men. I have learned through my partner in Auror training, Ms. Nymphadora Tonks, that being allowed to take part in the battles is much more fun than being expected to sit on the sidelines and cheer._

_With the Halloween feast coming, you might wish to consider preparing a sending of Celts to add a bit of drama and fun to the holiday. Maybe an all-house team, this time? If I recall correctly, young Alexandra McCrarry of Ravenclaw played an exciting and lively version of Bonny Scotland on the pipes...I think she's third year, now, but was always up for a bit of fun. She might join your crew._

_Regarding Harry Potter and his unseemly chance to take part in quidditch matches—to use a dreadfully coarse phrase from the streets of London, "bugger that for a game of soldiers." It isn't fair it isn't right, but there's no fixing it, and at least Professor Snape behaved honourably. Practice for next year, cheer your own team, and don't hold young Potter's luck against him. He didn't choose his birth or his talents any more than you did, and he's too new to the wizarding world to make the best possible choices._

_Be honest—if you'd been given the same chance, you'd have jumped at it._

_Let it pass, and see if you can learn from him. It sounds like he's wicked-good, even if it isn't fair they let him play early._

_Again, I hope you will forgive my intrusion. It has always been hard to be a Slytherin, and it is harder still in these difficult times. Please, feel free to write me at any time. As I said, I think of you much as I think of Sherlock—as a brother, and in your case, a housemate._

_My best wishes,_

_Mycroft Holmes._

_._

_Dear Professor Dumbledore—_

_Your solution to the pirate invasion was inspired. I stand in awe. That said—_

_I know you're dealing with terrible complexities in dealing with politics both inside and outside of Hogwarts. I know that Professor Snape is profoundly occupied in his varied roles within the school._

_I am including a copy of my brother's latest missive. Please read it with particular attention to the difficulty facing young Draco Malfoy—who serves as a superb example of the challenges facing all Slytherins._

_Someone has got to do something for House Slytherin, particularly the new members. How in the name of heaven are you expecting to save for our side if you don't put in more effort to give them help, guidance, and support?_

_Young Draco Malfoy isn't a bad place to start. For goodness' sake,_ _**do** _ _something or you're going to lose yet another generations of Slytherins to corrupt ambitions and petty loyalties. I'm sorry, but it's not all Gryffindor red and gold, you know, and young Potter's future will be a good deal less dangerous if he can count on a Slytherin or two on his side. Would you please, please make that possible?_

_Respectfully yours,_

_Mycroft Holmes._

_._

_To: Miss Almeria Black-Rosier_

_Dear Rosie—_

_It's me, Mycroft. I'm told you're working in the records department of the Ministry of Magic since graduation. Any chance, one Slytherin to another, we could do some work together? I'm trying to determine if some magical artefacts have gone astray. I'll stand you dinner on Wednesday at 7:00 at the Leaky Cauldron, and bring you up to date on everything that's going on with young Willard Scoggins, as a return favour. Or if you're not still sighing over Will and drawing little hearts around his name, I'll tattle on anyone else who's currently taken your fancy. You on?_

_Yours in serpentine splendour,_

_M. Holmes._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Lessons are not taught for the sake of school, but for the sake of the life beyond.
> 
> Beauxbatons: While the movie made the school look like single-sex women's school, the books indicate male students. I'm choosing to play for fun, and have it be a traditional girl's school that's recently started accepting male students—think Vassar in the 1970s. Monty Montgomery has enjoyed the luxury of a 10-1 female/male ratio, having attended Beauxbatons rather than Hogwarts. "Gardez Bien" (Guard Well) is the traditional Montgomery motto, but I'm also having it come quickly to mind because his brain is still partly tracking in French.
> 
> Considerations regarding Slytherin: The house's element is water—feminine, intuitive, dark, sensuous, "passive" as opposed to active, cool, hidden and secretive rather than open and easily accessed. Its colors are green (fertility/fecundity/growth as well as decay and corruption) and silver (moonlight, starlight, all things both beautiful and corruptible, all things changeable (Thanks be to God for dappled things...)). Its tutelary animal is the serpent—a sign of healing, as well as death; of renewal, as well as darkness; of subconscious as well as madness. The sign of Hermes Trismagistus, of writing and occult systems. There's a huge amount to play with in Slytherin's signatures. Just as Gryffindor's element is fire, and it claims the lion and the phoenix, and all things bright-shining, Slytherin claims the fertile dark, the ocean depths, the changeable moon and dancing stars.
> 
> For all their apparent reserve and reason, Sherlock and Mycroft are both presented as being emotional under their reserve, and what they do is as much intuitive as it is rational: pick apart any Holmesean solution and you're left with the awareness that only intuition could tell the brothers that this detail was important, but that one wasn't, and this explanation for evidence was right, as opposed to a dozen other equally logical options. One of the real pleasures of watching the show (or reading the ACD originals) is that the "normal" people have some right to feel put out when Holmes acts like it's all obvious and perfectly reasonable: Sherlock may not think he's being intuitive, but he is. He cheats, and then presents a rational explanation to wallpaper over the peculiarity of his right guesses. Holmes intuits a solution, and then reasons backward to see how he should have gotten there.
> 
> In the wizarding world, it seems to me that this sort of intuitive knowing would be a bit more accepted as a "rational" form of irrationality, but also a very Slytherin one: a bit suspect, a lot annoying to more broad-daylight Gryffindor types, and ultimately a mystery that won't accept any solution.


End file.
